


Burnin' Bright

by Vehuel



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007), Transformers Generation One
Genre: Character Death, Character stuck in a cell and fuckin' starving, Hot Rod is gonna suffer alone, I don't know what else to tag, Imprisonment, Luck strikes again, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, all the relationships tagged are in the past and not really in the story, and lo and behold, can you hear the sarcasm, for now i guess, more or less, my beautiful boi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 02:10:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14462745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vehuel/pseuds/Vehuel
Summary: Hot Rod was feeling hot.On a normal orn this thought would have amused him, and he would have cracked up some kind of joke, body and armor angling in some alluring pose to catch the light and entice the bots around him while he boasted his attractiveness to the world.Being hot was in his name.But this was neither the time nor the place, and being hot was worrying him.





	Burnin' Bright

**Author's Note:**

> While waiting for inspiration for Further to Fall, this came to me because I'm a bitch and I like to see my characters suffer.  
> It could be a stand alone, or it could be the prologue to another story I'm half-minded to write.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy (I'm not sure it is the right word) this, let me know!

 

 

 

 

 

Hot Rod was feeling hot.

On a normal orn this thought would have amused him, and he would have cracked up some kind of joke, body and armor angling in some alluring pose to catch the light and entice the bots around him while he boasted his attractiveness to the world. 

Being hot was in his _name_.

But this was neither the time nor the place, and being hot was worrying him.

Inside his cell, without heating or any kind of blankets, stuck in the dark corner of this solitary moon, the last orns had passed slowly, his frame rattling and huddling in the corner, stiff amor plates pulled tight against protoform to preserve the faint heat his idle engine produced, fans almost still in desperate effort to warm himself. 

Sometimes he had had to jog around the tiny cell, trying to warm his tubes and lines, his energon almost frozen still into sludge inside them. The lack of energon and energy was taking its toll on him, tiredness and apathy creeping up his frame so frequently he had almost given in and accessed his reserve of innermost energon to sustain himself.

Almost. 

He couldn’t give up, so he hadn’t caved, had kept careful watch of his dwindling energy levels displayed on his hud and awaited his fate, be it torture or maiming by the hands of Shockwave and his crew. 

His friends would come, he knew. 

The tight-knit crew of the Xanthium would fight back and try to save him, despite the odds and the terror the name _Shockwave_ could instill in their spark just from hearing it.

They were the Wreckers, and no one was left behind. 

This deeply-felt hope was what had sub-stained him in the long and freezing orns in the cell, and daydreaming had caught so much of his attention that the silence of the area around him had taken several kliks to register. 

His armor wasn’t rattling anymore. 

The awful noise had kept him company, the sinews clamping his plates to his protoform failing to prevent their shaking and rattling, brought forth by the cold and the tiredness. 

It was instinctual, and so deeply ingrained in his code as frame behavior and mannerism that not even his repeated effort could stop it. 

It had become white noise around him in the end, and the suddenly encompassing silence felt extremely weird and wrong to him after a long time of disturbance. 

Hot Rod checked his hud, unfurling slightly from the tight ball he had forced himself into to preserve heat. 

His frame temperature was steadily rising, slowly, so slowly he had not noticed before. It had been going on for joors, according to the time stamp on his hud. 

He shuttered his optics, rebooting his hud and recalculating the percentages, because it was not possible. 

Nothing had changed in the cell, he could still feel the freezing cold of the wall behind him and the floor under his aft pressing against his armor plates, feeling like a physical force against his sensors, but he was strangely, and inexplicably, _hot_.

His frame was warming up so much he had to spread it wide on the floor, panels shifting and lifting to expel warm air, fans kicking up a notch from almost stillness back to normal levels. 

A pop-up message blinked steadily in front of his optics, overriding any control he could exert on the situation. 

 ** _Initializing reproductive cycle_**.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Hot Rod had heard stories about heats and the protocol revolving around them.

Around 25% of the population on Cybertron, after the final transition and upgrade from youngling-hood to mature-hood, started experiencing what were commonly called _heats_ , or _heat-cycles_.

No one had known where they came from, and why only a few bots could have them, Ratchet had told him while checking his systems after his youngling upgrade.

Initially they had thought it was restricted only to a selected elite, but had quickly discovered that these heat-cycles didn’t discern mech from femme, alpha from beta from gamma status, but were evenly distributed among the population. 

Everyone could have them, from senators to merchants to beggars in the streets, but _only_ 25% of the entire population.

Intensive studies had discovered that everyone of that 25% had something in their frame that the other 75 didn’t have, something they had called _gestation tank_.

With it, came the ability to create new sparks and develop new protoform for the new lives, a process before exclusively reserved to the AllSpark. 

Ratchet had called it a ‘clever evolution’ of their species, while others, more religious than the old medic, had sang the praises of Primus and paid tributes to His temples. 

It had come with restrictions, of course. New sparks could only be created by bonded couples or trines, and heat-cycles could not be exploited. 

Every cybertronian had protocols inscribed into them, written down in their very sparks, in their innermost code, part of who they were. Faced with a bot entering a heat-cycle, a rigid regulation was to be followed. 

If the designated heat-partner of the fertile bot was not around, the most suitable bot in the immediate proximity (be it energy-wise, frame-wise or else) was to lend their help immediately, servicing and caring for them for the entirety of the heat-cycle (or until the designated heat-partner could be warned and brought in), protecting them without exploiting and taking advantage of the mindless bot. 

It was protocol designated to keep those heat-riddled bots **safe** , and prevent harm. 

It had worked for millennia, it was inscribed in their very being, and it was of the uttermost importance.

It prevailed over social status, situation, and even hostilities and war. 

That’s why when that slagged message blinked on his hud, Hot Rod wasn’t worried.

Sure, his first heat had chosen a _wonderful_ time to make his appearance, and he wasn’t exactly looking forward to a Decepticon spike in his valve, but at least he _knew_ he would be cared for.

Protocol commanded it, and it brought with it a few perks. 

Hot Rod knew that, by the end of his heat-cycle, he would be extremely satisfied, refueled, and back to the Xanthium, left in the care of his friends as protocol dictated. 

His capture would be over soon.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Hot Rod was hot, so hot, hotter than ever, and clinging to his sanity by a thread. 

He could feel his mind slipping down the slope, trying to ensnare him in the mindlessness and pure-instinct brought forth by the heat, but he resisted, worry giving him strength. 

An entire joor had passed, and _no one_ had come. 

No one had even showed their face, he hadn’t heard anything, all of this despite the steadily blinking camera in the highest corner of the cell, live-recording everything. 

Shockwave must be watching, must be aware of Hot Rod being in the throes of his heat. 

He would come, someone would come, Hot Rod reasoned, armor plates loose and dropping, body twisting on the floor, thighs instinctually splayed wide. 

His modesty panel was still closed, he was still enough in control of himself to keep it closed despite his cramping array behind it. 

His valve was already soaked, protomesh rippling slickly and clenching gently around nothing, nodes swollen with energon and pulsing painfully, spike still behind its cover but contracting and aching with need, begging to be extended.

Hot Rod twisted his frame, rolling his hips in the air to expose his fame in the best way, instinctually trying to entice eventual onlookers, knowing without looking that pinkish lubricant has started to leak from his panel, smearing his flame-red thighs and glittering in the light. 

Someone would come, and his cravings would be satisfied. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Something was _wrong_ , **wrong** , **_WRONG_**.

Hot Rod cried out, vocalizer rough from the moans and laments escaping him.

He was already gone, briefly resurfacing from time to time, joors in between his bouts of consciousness according to his chronometer. 

No one had come. 

No one was there. 

Hot Rod twisted in need, scraping his front against the floor, leaving behind stripes of his black and red paint in his desperate attempt to rut against something, hips clanking against the cold stone.

Steam escaped from his vents and the gaps between his armor plates, fans already at their highest settings, but his temperature kept rising, always rising, unless someone came and fragged him through the floor, flooding his gestation tank with much-needed nanites-rich transfluid. 

Only the pressure of spilled transfluid against the sensor of his gestation tank would take his temperature down, a clear sign of his heat being satisfied and fulfilled. 

Only thinking about it made him moan brokenly and sob, his valve clenching painfully on nothing and lubricant dribbling freely from his open panel, splattering to the floor. His calipers clenched down harshly, bringing a stabbing trail of agony rushing up his back struts, making him arch harshly with a shout. 

Hot Rod sobbed again, armor plates rattling in distress, and started cooing brokenly, vocalizer rough and giving in at intervals, spitting out static, voice echoing around his cell and spreading out.

His digits plunged into his valve, trying to bring him relief, trying to coax out an overload that wouldn’t come.

He cooed, trying to draw someone in, his frame wrecked in pain and burning hot like a smelter. 

No one came. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In the midst of bouts of consciousness and seizures, Hot Rod dreamed, his mind delirious and drowning in heat and agony.

Not even in the few kliks of sleep he was spared. 

He dreamed of the Academy, of sparring with the other cadets, of frames brushing against his own, of servos grabbing him, denting his armor, holding him tight.

He dreamed of the twins, his bonded _battle-mates_ , their frames caging him in, of Sideswipe’s spike deep inside his valve, stretching him to the limit, holding him down against the berth and fragging him deep and strong, leaving him motionless and powerless, only to stay there and take it until Sideswipe overloaded, his valve flooded by sticky transfluid, smearing his frame. 

He dreamed of Sunstreaker’s smirk, the bindings holding his wrists over his helm, the yellow mech’s scalding valve clenching around his spike, riding him noisily while he begged and pleaded, completely at his mercy, with a magnetized ring circling the base of his spike and keeping his overload at bay, making him frantic and spastic.

Frames over frames touched him, his twins being replaced by the brute strength of Springer, the lithe figure of Arcee, the weight of his comrades. 

Fragged and fragging, his processor tortured him, swallowing him down in a well of heat and need and erotic fervor that received no release. 

Hot Rod lit up his optics and screamed brokenly against the stone, alone and seizing, boiling alive, screaming again and again until his vocalizer gave out with a pop of static, broken machinery sparking and burning him, energon flooding his intake and making him choke wetly. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

His hud was blinking urgently along the field of his vision, frantic messages popping up one after the other. 

Hot Rod didn’t bother reading them, lost inside himself, floating away, knowing what they would read.

He had exhausted his coolant reserves joors before, and his armor was starting to crack and tear, feeling dry and dead to his moisture-starved sensors. 

He was boiling alive, his frame temperature steadily climbing despite his frame limits, his lines beginning to redden and melt. 

The pain felt distant, muted. 

He was lying on the floor, still, the occasional twitch wrecking his frame and making him spasm.

He couldn’t move. 

Orns has passed in heat-induced madness, frantic need without relief, twisting and clenching and shouting and rattling and **he was alone**.

A thought had slithered in his processor, rooting in him, carving his way until nothing else mattered.

He was dying. 

That was the truth. 

An orn before, his valve’s calipers had clenched down so hard during a seizure that they had derailed from their tracks, the normally smooth edges sharpened by the wear of frantic constant movements, slicing and tearing through the soft energon-rich protomesh of his valve. 

The agony had been spark-deep.

His array was now torn apart and shredded, and the energon pooling out around him had formed a pool, kept warm by his boiling frame. 

He couldn’t feel anything from his chest down. 

His frame felt paralyzed, broken down, energon flowing out of him.

Hot Rod was dying. 

But he wasn’t afraid. 

Despite his hate of Primus, despite hating the future the god and His cult had set upon him, he _knew_ , with every beat of his Spark, that he would find peace in the Well. 

It would be over soon, the innermost energon he had automatically accessed when his energy reserves got depleted a while back was almost gone, quickly burned by his heat-riddled systems.

He also knew it would not be the loss of energon to kill him.

Hot Rod burned, burned bright, boiling and reaching the stars, and his lines melted and caught fire.

Hot Rod’s spark gave out in a ball of fire, energon igniting and destroying him until a dead charred carcass was left.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
